Frankly and boyishly, his appreciated his friends’ entertaining chatter. But they came and went, with the superficial _bonhomie_ of the modern soldier. They touched no depths. If he had died of his gangrened foot, they would have said “Poor old chap!” and thought no more about him. He did not condemn them, for he himself had said and thought the same of many a comrade who had gone West. It was part of the game which he played as scrupulously and as callously as the others. He craved, however, solicitude deeper and more permanent. Of course there was Dorothy Mackworth. She did not come to Churton Towers; but she had dutifully attended the Carlton when he had summoned her thither to meet Sister Baring, and put on for his benefit her most adorable clothing and behaviour. The lunch had been a meal of delight. The young man glowed over his guests—the two prettiest women, so he declared, in the room. Marcelle in the much-admired hat, her cheeks slightly flushed and her eyes bright, looked absurdly young. The girl, conscious of angelic dealing, carried off her own absurd youth with a conquering air that bewitched him more than ever. She dropped golden words: “Oh, let us cut out Leopold! I’ve no use for him.” She had no use for Leopold Doon, his half-brother and rival. He was to be cut out of their happy thoughts. Also: “I’m not going to have you creep back into civil life and bury yourself at Cambridge. You’d get a hump there you’d never recover from. There’s lots of jobs on the staff for a brainy fellow like him, aren’t there, Miss Baring? I’ll press father’s button and he’ll do the rest.” Now Dorothy’s father was a Major-General doing things at Whitehall, whose nature was indicated by mystic capital letters after his name. “You’ll look splendid in red tabs,” she added. This profession of interest and this air of proprietorship enraptured him. Under the ban of her displeasure Cambridge faded into a dreary, tumbledown desolation. She had but to touch him with her fairy wand and he would break out all over in red tabs. She spoke with assurance in the future tense. And again, in a low voice, on their winding way out through the tables of the restaurant, Marcelle preceding them by a yard or two: “Miss Baring’s a real dear. But don’t fall in love with her, for I swear I’m not going to play gooseberry.” He had protested in a whisper: “Fall in love with anyone but you?” And she had replied: “I think I’m nice enough,” and had laughed at him over her shoulder and looked exceedingly desirable. He had never dared till that inspired moment speak to her of love in plain, bald terms; now he had done it and not only remained unfrozen, but basked in the warmth of her approval. “I think that’s the most beautiful beano I’ve ever had,” he said to Marcelle, on their journey back to Godalming.